The warehouse was vast and black and stank of rust and old chemicals.
Braddock came out of the shadows at the back, his face carved down to nothing but three decades of hate.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” he said, and tossed Elspeth’s silver bracelet onto a rusted table beside a faded folder.
“What do you want from my family,” I said, keeping my voice steady and clear for the wire at my collar, “after thirty years.”
“Your mother stole those files and then she sat on them.” His voice shook with it.
“If she’d turned them in the day she found them, that bad batch gets recalled, and my son doesn’t die from it.